


the waters of babylon

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: And That Someone Is Everyone, Depression: Not Just Feeling Bummed Out, Fluff and Smut, Grumpy Boys & Their Soft Boys Who Need Comforting, M/M, someone needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Amid debility, the Second Sight showed Francis Crozier a possible rendezvous with James Fitzjames. Although the whole truth stays unseen as they prepare for the long walk, Francis remains determined to look after his second-in-command.(A sort-of sequel to 'the book of love', but could also work as a standalone.)





	1. Chapter 1

“Eighteen total injured. Out of those, six gravely.”

Standing in the great room of  _ Erebus _ , not ten hours following the events of Carnivale, Captain Francis Crozier beheld the battlefield surgery in silent horror as Goodsir read him out the final butcher’s bill. 

Sir John’s once-pristine and gleaming cabin was now littered in gore: at the far right corner, next to the bookshelves, dark streaks of blood and antiseptic scissored the captain’s table-turned-surgical slab in drying, glue-like rivulets. The frozen floor had been scattered with slag to prevent slipping in muck, while jagged bits of rust-stained bandages, flecked in gobs of burned or rent flesh, also dusted the ground throughout. At the head of the table, a single surgical saw, its blade still wet from cleaning, lay discarded.

Arranged along the wall nearest the seat of ease, eight cots had been set up in a line, containing two Erebites and four Terrors, plus Leys and another Erebite who had been injured in an unrelated incident, a few days back.

From Erebus: the purser’s steward, Fowler, and a seaman named Work.

From Terror: carpenter’s mate Wilson. Seaman Lane. Seaman Morfin. 

And Ice Master Tom Blanky, with his right leg newly amputated above the knee.

Francis regarded his old friend for a long moment, lying so pale and still in his cot in a laudanum-induced sleep. The many lines around Tom’s brow and eyes and mouth, usually so quick to appear or deepen when Blanky laughed or spoke or cocked an eyebrow at a misbehaving seaman were now smoothed into a soft likeness Francis had not seen in near ten years. Tom looked almost like a midshipman in such soporific quietude, particularly under the darkness of polar night.

Quietly, Francis cleared his throat to speak, turning back toward the doctor, who sat nearest the door with his bag, taking new inventory of his instruments. 

“And the final dead?” 

Goodsir glanced up. For a brief moment, Francis saw that the surgeon’s face was taut with anguish, although his hands did not falter. “Five officers at least, sir.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

The very same figure he’d been given at last report. He’d hoped it was wrong.

“All the other doctors.” A pause. “Except McDonald, who fell just outside the tents. Musket ball from the Marines.”

Francis forced himself to hold his tongue as he recalled it. God-damned fucking Tozer would be lashed to bloody pieces for taking a doctor from the men. And anyone who plotted the worst of the hell-fucking Carnivale nonsense could bloody well join him.

“And the others?”

Goodsir put his last instrument away and seemed to deflate. Every manner of exhaustion now returned to his body at once, as if he had not known it existed till this very moment. 

“Fairholme and Hornby are still missing. Though we’ll not know about the rest for certain until the – the fire burns out.”

Nodding his head in confirmation – the gesture automatic; it was all he could do – Francis stepped away from the cots and went over to the young surgeon. 

“Thank you, Doctor Goodsir. You have done well tonight.”

“Perhaps.” Goodsir made a vaguely displeased face. “But it is not enough.”

“False.” Francis reached out, grasped the man’s shoulder. “You have saved eighteen men. Eighteen who should likely not have lived, had they no doctor to tend them. And now you must rest yourself, hm?”

Pale and jittery, Goodsir’s eyes were shot through with red. He looked like he ached to sleep, although his hands still twitched in the direction of his medical bag. 

“Hardly know what to do next, sir.”

“Then accept a captain’s order in good faith. Rest.” Francis helped the younger man to his feet before grasping the nearest lantern. “I shall walk you there personally.”

Slowly, they made their way toward the surgery proper. 

Spent as he was, Goodsir’s feet seemed to carry him toward his bunk automatically; once they reached sick bay, he walked swiftly and with purpose to a small berth nearest the storage compartment, sat down on the bed here, and almost immediately slumped sideways in complete exhaustion, still fully-clothed save for his waistcoat, which he had discarded perhaps hours ago.

Suppose that was part and parcel of the practice, Francis thought with a small tinge of humour. Having to alternate sleeping and waking at all hours of the night.

He intended to leave  _ Erebus  _ and return to  _ Terror,  _ although most of the men – if not all of them – were still below decks, but a small, almost imperceptible sound coming from another nearby berth stopped him in his tracks.

Doctor Stanley’s door was ajar, and at first, ludicrously, Francis thought they might yet find the master surgeon within, reading in his bunk in his nightshirt and feigning ignorance as to whatever incredible malady had befallen the entire crew.

When he reached the door and saw who sat here on the fully-made bed instead, his heart leapt into his throat.

“James.”

Fitzjames did not blink, nor did he react to Francis’s greeting; indeed, his gaze was so unfocused, it was clear he was not in his right mind. Quickly, Francis took inventory of his second’s condition: slumped forward and staring into the distance, James was still wearing part of the ridiculous costume he had donned for Carnivale, although his helmet and shield were nowhere to be seen. His face and arms and hands were smeared with ash and what appeared to be dried blood. His dark hair tangled messily around his ears and shoulders. Last time Francis had seen him, James had been pale and terribly shaken but still mobile, and he had refused to leave the side of the few dead men kept below decks. 

How long had he sat here alone? Had he not seen Goodsir? Had he not slept?

“James,” Francis called, softer this time. “Are you injured?”

No reply.

Mind made up, Francis stepped inside the berth and shut the door behind him, setting his lantern down on Stanley’s desk before removing his own coat and hat.

“James, I’m going to help you out of your costume now,” he said first, desperately grasping at some imagined courtesy. Even if the fellow was not lucid, he deserved to be treated as if he were perfectly well. “Get you cleaned up, see what ails you, hm?”

Fitzjames said nothing. Blank despair had carved itself into his face.

“Right.” Francis exhaled a short breath, and then stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on James’s upper arm, and then a second on his opposite shoulder, where the cold metal of the breastplate bit into his mittened hand. Temperature was dropping quickly. “Here we go.”

As slowly as he could manage, narrating each movement aloud all the while, Francis eased the moth-eaten and torn cape from his fellow captain’s broad chest and arm and over James’s head, tossing it into the floor. 

Could burn with the rest of the remainders, for all he cared. 

“There we are, James. Getting your boots off, now.”

Awkwardly, he knelt down and pulled off first the left, and then the right, smiling slightly once he’d managed to wrangle both shoes into the floor. It was more awkward than expected, but once the deed was done, Francis could not help making light of the situation.

“God above. Your socks absolutely reek.” A pause; he smiled at his own joke, despite everything. “Nice to know the hero of the Opium Wars has got one clear fault, and it’s the tragic, nostril-curling state of his enormous toes.”

No response. Which was honestly a shame; Francis had been saving that one.

“S’pose those Brobdingnagian hooves aid considerably in all your walking.” Still no response. Francis sighed, and sat back on his heels. “Anyway. You’ve all sorts of muck on your hem. Worse than Miss Eliza Bennet, even. Hate to inform you, but we’d, er, better get that off, too.”

As he fumbled with the leather straps of the breastplate and the laces of the dress, Francis did not let himself dwell on the obscene images the Second Sight had shown him. Had it truly been less than a week ago that he’d been so wracked with delirium and vivid hallucinations? Whatever the case, he refused to acknowledge the possibility of such an event. Perhaps some vindictive, cruel God had realized they two would end up here, or in some similar situation, where James would need someone to attend to his physical person. 

But it did not mean that Francis should ever expect the man to desire him. A mere glimpse of such acts in some future point did not mean they were set in stone.

Granted, his obstinate refusal to acknowledge what he had glimpsed with the Sight made his movements awkward once he was divesting James of the trousers beneath the costume and searching in the drawers for a clean nightshirt, but it was a small price to pay to ensure his friend’s comfort. 

Francis did not dare remove James’s linens; that was a bridge too far. Although at least the man had decided to wear them.

“Let me see if I can find a basin. Get you washed up.” He continued talking aloud; combined with their strange, nearly-sterile setting, it was easier to pretend he was a surgeon’s mate or ship’s boy or someone equally incompetent, poking around where he didn’t belong. Assisting the  _ Erebus _ captain quietly and without delay. “Can’t have someone thinking Hoar or Bridgens have neglected you.”

Leaving the door open as he strode into the outer room, he found a nearby porcelain pitcher of what was either ice melt or drinking water, and decided this would be good as anything, if a bit frigid.

“Tempted to pop back down to the conflagration and heat this up first,” he said as he returned with the pitcher and a clean cloth. A pang of fierce regret mixed with boiling rage pierced his chest as he voiced this sacreligious remark. 

Too early to joke about such things. Made him too angry.

“Ah. Anyway. Mind yourself, now. It’ll be cold.”

A wordless yelp escaped Fitzjames’s lips as Francis began to wipe down the man’s lean, still-muscle-bound arms and chest. James was shaking visibly, now, but whether that was from the temperature of the water itself or the shock of it all, Francis could not say.

“Time to start in on that beaky great nose, I think.” After wringing out the cloth into the basin, and pouring more clean water over it with the pitcher, he stood up, approached Fitzjames’s face, and touched his friend on the shoulder, then just under his chin, tilting his head up. “Close your eyes.”

After less than a second, James obliged; heartened, Francis made quick work around his fellow captain’s brow, forehead, nose, and mouth. There was a small patch just at his hairline which was still bleeding; perhaps he had been caught by some hot ash or a splinter as they escaped the inferno. He’d have to remember to bandage that later.

“You see? Clean as a whistle.” Putting the dirty cloth aside, he helped Fitzjames into one of Dr. Stanley’s nightshirts; as the two men were close to the same height, it fit better than could be expected. “Now, if we can fix this knotted birds’ nest you call hair, you’ll be rid of me at last. Cleaning you up is one thing, but I absolutely refuse to come at you with the curling tongs. Unless you’d prefer to have your ears singed off.”

How should the hair washing be done?

Francis was just plotting it out in his mind, visualizing the basin placed at the foot of the berth; Fitzjames perhaps resting his neck on the pillow while Francis poured a bit of clean water over dark locks and got the lather going, when a slight gasp to his left made him turn.

Blinking once, then twice, James glanced around the berth, and then at Francis, as if he had only just returned to his senses.

“Francis.”

“It’s all right, James.” Francis pressed a hand to his friend’s arm. “You’re in sickbay on  _ Erebus _ . There’s no duty owing.”

“But you’re – you’re here.”

“Aye.” Taking a seat to James’s left, Francis moved his hand up, and squeezed the  _ Erebus  _ Captain’s shoulder. “That I am.”

“And you’re – all right?”

“More or less. Shall I squeeze a bit harder?” 

He gave Fitzjames as good a smile as he could manage. Dimly, he realized his head had begun throbbing in a near-splitting way. Perhaps he wasn’t as well as he’d hoped.

“But you were – so ill. Nearly a f - fortnight.” 

James’s voice quivered on the last word.

With a sinking heart, Francis realized the poor fellow was still in deep shock. What day did he think it was? Did he think they were back on  _ Terror? _

“True.” He moved one hand from James’s shoulder to chuck him under the chin with two fingers, the way he might have tried to buck up a ship’s boy, or even a young child. Though when he had last encountered any children was difficult to say. “Couldn’t possibly lay about all year, though, could I? Not after first sunrise.”

“Sunrise.”

Such a stupid gesture did not make James laugh, as planned, but instead brought tears to the man’s downturned eyes, which spilled silently down his rangy cheeks. His breath became shallow and labored, and he clutched at Francis’s arms for new purchase.

“God above. Francis, I thought you – I thought –  _ the fire _ – ”

“Breathe, James,” murmured Francis, drawing his fellow captain into a hesitant embrace; still gasping, James clung to him like a man half-drowned, fisting both hands in the fabric of Francis’s collar and burying his face in Francis’s neck. “Breathe. We’re all right.”

Tentatively, he moved one hand to rest in James’s matted, filthy hair, closing his eyes as his second shivered against him.

“We’re all right.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who haven't read the book, Carnivale and the lashings play out a little differently, timeline-wise, and I leaned on that canon more heavily than I did the show timeline, for the purposes of this fic. (Tozer gets lashed for the crime of being an idiot and shooting at a fire, instead of being a Hickey conspirator from the get-go, for example. And some others who are sent away in the show - hi, Fairholme! - get to stay and die in a flaming tent instead.)


	2. Chapter 2

In the days after, James managed to roust himself long enough to check in with the men: exchanged sad smiles, clasped hands, and grieved over what they had lost. Only he did not feel as if he was the one doing such things at all. Even after witnessing the public lashing and the discipline that followed, he imagined himself floating outside of his body at all hours, distantly noted such alarming symptoms like the rapid-fire hammering of his heart or the tremor in his hands or the tears in his eyes as he walked. And he picked up a curious habit; now, he ran mittened hands across the wall wherever he went as if he could not bear to be parted from the ship, for even a moment.

And then, one otherwise ordinary morning, he could not get out of bed.

He made some pitiful excuse. Illness. Ague. Bridgens did not seem to believe him, but he did not protest, either. Neither did Henry or Des Voeux, who appeared to think he was suffering from exhaustion, brought on by Carnivale and all those late-night trips to _Terror_ prior to Christmas.

One person, however, absolutely refused to let him lie.

“God’s blood,” Francis swore, as a gust of cold wind swept into the berth. Although James could not see him from this position, he could hear the soft scrape of Francis’s mittens as rough wool bit at brittle, grey-ginger hair and swept any remnants of snow into the floor. “What’s the matter with you, then? Did you catch your death of cold at last?”

James made no answer.

“If we are both come down with fever, I am going to blame you very profusely,” continued Francis with an aggrieved sigh. There was a rustling of fabric, and the clink of his uniform coat being removed. “I’ve had quite enough of fever for the rest of my life, in case you had wondered about my feelings on the subject.”

Still, James made no answer. All he felt was a vague pang of guilt stirring in his gut. _I’m sorry I have made you feel so ill. I should have done better. I am not fit to be your second. Nor to be here. I deserve to be unhappy, not you._

“Also, in case you are curious, I have already thought of several items to take with us on the long walk.” Francis held up a square of paper, folded into fourths, which he produced from one pocket. “With your counsel, perhaps we shall haul them all in a boat on our own. Ahem.” He began to read aloud. “One trunk of costumes from _Erebus’s_ production of _Much Ado About Nothing_. Think the men’s spirits will be much assuaged by Reid and Blanky’s impression of two bickering idiots.”

 _That is without a doubt the stupidest suggestion I have ever heard,_ thought Fitzjames, although he did not speak aloud.

“Hm. I can see you are not agreeable for some impossible reason. Very well; I’ll now strike it from the record. Next, I thought we might be able to take an entire boat’s worth of Bibles. Although they’re damned heavy, desperately boring, and would bring true joy to only Irving, we could excise much of our darkest frustrations by burning them for fuel.”

_And promptly be struck down by lightning, I think._

“Not sure how wise such blasphemous tinder would be, however. Have you any pressing thoughts on the matter?”

_I don’t want to think at all._

A pause. Francis shifted in the desk chair.

“Are you asleep, James?”

In the tone of voice that suggested he knew full well that James was wide awake.

“No,” sighed James, after a long moment.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.” He glanced right before he could stop himself, and in his peripheral vision caught Francis’s searching frown, his visible concern. “Stay.”

It was too difficult to crane his neck this way for very long, and so he rolled back to face the wall again. A few seconds later, he heard the chair scrape the floor, as loudly as chalk across a slate, before Francis got to the edge of the bed, and sat down.

“All right.” A small huff of breath. “Long as you don’t boot me out again in ten minutes. Size of those feet, the blow alone might kill me.”


	3. Chapter 3

“What was the name of that idiotic ship’s cat of yours, on the _Clio_? Isis?”

Francis had decided that the best way to get James to talk was to dwell on topics that had once delighted his second to no end. Having reached the limit of questions he could ask about the Woosung River – which, frankly, were of shocking number, considering he’d always tried to drink himself to death during every hours-long retelling of the day – he had no choice but to begin pulling at threads of smaller, lesser-known tales.

“Eurgh.”

James was currently gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling and did not honor Francis’s prickly question with a verbal answer.

However, Francis knew that grumble. It was his disagreement noise.

“Hm. Perhaps it was Nefertiti. Have a vague impression of you regaling me with such a ridiculous tale whilst I was in my fevers.” Pause; he pursed his mouth in an innocent way. “Did you not say she was a Bengal tiger, James? Or, no. I think a leopard. The long-bodied Indian cat with all the spots. That must be it. I am quite certain.”

“Clearly you are not, as she was a _cheetah_ , and her name was Nebet,” came James’s softly-aggrieved answer after several long seconds. “Although I’m surprised you recall the details at all. You were very ill.”

“If you must know, I recall plenty from your blasted adventure stories,” Francis answered calmly, as he turned to the next page in his book. “Despite the fact that you never tell the truly entertaining ones, only the same three over and over again.”

A shuffle in the berth; James had actually rolled onto his side to stare at him. “The entertaining ones.”

“Mm.” Francis turned another page in his book, although he was no longer reading or scanning it with any sort of attention. It was simply meant to occupy his hands. “Every sailor has a litany of the mischief he got up to as a volunteer, or an able seaman, or as a midshipman. And yet you spake not a word of such things on your own behalf till I was half-dead. I am almost offended by it, you know.”

“Francis, you _hate_ my stories,” James said flatly, his manner as hesitant and uncertain if he were wandering through a complex hedge maze, and had no idea which way to turn. “You have always hated them. I – every officer’s dinner. Any public function at all. The constant derision was obvious.”

“Ah. Well.” Francis let out a huff, lowered his voice to a mere mumble. “Suppose that was badly done.”

“I don’t understand,” said James, looking for all the world as if Francis was now unrecognizable to him. “You were ill-tempered because – because of the drink?”

“Well, I – obviously, we’ve had ample opportunity to reflect on your various braveries, all notable in their own right,” said Francis now, barely daring to glance at the carved rail as he spoke, let alone into his fellow captain’s face. “Yet through three years wintered-in, you have revealed nearly nothing about the man who should perform such reckless deeds. You say nothing of the sort of life you wish to lead when we return, or any – young adventures with friends – the sorts of experiences which led you to become bold as you please. All good-natured boasting aside, it – I’ll not claim to understand why a man with so much to tell says so very little when it counts.”

James’s mouth dropped open. He actually sat up, and smoothed unruly hair from his forehead. A perplexed frown etched deep into his face.

“Do you honestly mean to say that you, Francis Crozier, who shares almost nothing with his fellow men save a few dutiful pleasantries – that you believe me to be – _withholding?_ ”

“Not purposefully, no,” said Francis, and turned back to the book he still held in both hands, smoothing over the back cover with one palm. “If such an oversight is incidental, as I am sure it must be, be advised that I should likely complain less at hearing more stories of that nature. As opposed solely to tales of adventure.”

James said nothing.

Francis scrubbed a hand across his jaw, suddenly feeling as raw and flayed as a sliver of skin exposed to the Arctic elements. “But if it bores you, pay it no mind. I only – ”

“No.” James cocked his head to one side, as if seeing Francis’s countenance from this particular angle would solve some ineffable mystery. “It – I am simply not, ah, accustomed to such requests. Particularly from you.”

“Well,” offered Francis with a small, creeping smile, “I suppose most persons find such topics damnably hideous.”

“Francis, you have said those precise words to me exactly,” countered James, and although it was not with his full humour, the visible disdain he took at needling Francis in this manner was heartening. “And on more than one occasion.”

“And I should say them to you again now, only I am quite distracted by my book.”

“You’re an awful liar,” said James, though one corner of his mouth twitched up as he lay back down. “Truly.”

“Fine, fine.” Francis rolled his eyes. “Let us hear more about your Noot, then. Did the old girl not claw your legs to ribbons on the quarterdeck?”

James’s pillow flew from its perch and boffed Francis in the knee. “It was my _cabin,_ and she bit me on the neck.”

“I’ll bite you in the neck if you throw that damned berg at me again,” grumbled Francis as he batted James’s pillow aside. He pretended not to notice how an odd, charged silence lingered in the air for several moments after he said this.


	4. Chapter 4

“God-damned ship’s boys!” came a familiar growl of irritation from just down the corridor. Confused as to why he should hear this vocal instance of Irish temper on _Erebus’s_ orlop deck _,_ Henry Peglar followed the constant stream of cursing to its eventual source: the ship’s library. “Where the bloody hell has that godforsaken book got to?”

Alone in the room, holding up a single lantern to one of the bookshelves, Captain Crozier was squinting at the spines as he tossed books aside with his free hand, still murmuring to himself.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I know it was here. I’m certain he...”

“Captain Crozier?” Tentatively, Henry stepped forward into the faint sputtering light. “Has _Terror_ run out of reading materials, sir?”

“Oh, Peglar. Hello. Nothing like that.”

The Captain seemed vaguely embarrassed to be discovered indulging such a frivolous pastime. But why should he be? John always said that reading was one of the most beneficial activities in which a man could engage. No matter his age, rank, or station, it could uplift and nourish the mind in so many ways. Henry had always liked imagining such things, back when he had been a student. He liked picturing it now, as well. Although in this case it would be a rare book that might make the fearsome Crozier crack a smile.

“Do you come in here often, these days?” asked the Captain, after a long silence.

Henry was not sure what the man meant by such a question. “Yes, sir. Erm, not if there’s duty owed, obviously. Just on me own. ‘Cos it – I enjoy it, really. Taking in the stories and the thoughts. All of them writers are quite clever. Only I’m not much good at reading ‘em.”

_I like it better when John reads to me._

Which Henry didn’t dare utter to his captain, obviously.

“Ah,” and here the _Terror_ Captain’s face relaxed into something more friendly, “well. It is a good man who pursues such things on his own time. I was only – I’ve been looking for a particular book, which I was assured was here. And now it isn’t. And I’ve got damnably annoyed.”

Annoyed was something Harry could help solve.

“Which book might that be, sir?”

The Captain’s eyes darted to the shelves. “It’s by a – Austen.”

“Oh. Don’t think I know ‘im very well. What does he write?”

“No, no. Er. The, er, lady author. Writes those – silly comedies. You know.”

Harry did not know. He stared at Captain Crozier, who stared right back. Neither of them spoke again for a few seconds.

“Right,” said Harry. He still didn't quite understand what was happening. “Well, if it’s a particular book you’re after by this Lady Austin, you could always ask Mister Bridgens. J – er, he’s got different books than those from the library, see. Lends ‘em to the _Erebites_ fairly often _._ Sure he’d let you borrow it, if he’s got the one you’re about.”

“Nonsense, Peglar,” said the Captain gruffly, and picked up his lantern again. In this light, his cheeks blazed very red. Harry supposed the high color was due to the usual thaw after being in the sharp cold. “Sure Mister Bridgens has plenty to be getting on with, these days. And I’ll not keep the _Erebites_ from their books. Dismiss.”

The entire exchange were so odd that Harry could not help going straight to John immediately after, to inform him of the situation as best he could. Or at least tell him a visit from Captain Crozier was a possibility in the coming days.

With rapt attentiveness, John listened to the story, thought for a moment, and finally pursed his mouth, in a way that meant he was pleased but maybe a bit confused.

“Did the Captain say which book he was after? Or should any Austen book do?”

“I….don’t recall that he did, no,” answered Harry, with a shock of recognition. Why hadn’t he asked such a question? Was there meant to be something special in the request? “Does it really matter?”

“No,” said John, and gave Harry the sort of soft, secretive smile that meant he were up to something. A bit of kindly mischief, seemed like. “In truth, I do not believe it does. Just an old man indulging a bit of idle curiosity, that is all.”

Lighting up in surprise as he recalled a similar, but much harder, word, Harry smiled back, happy to have time for extended conversation with the man he loved. “Well, you certainly aren’t old. Though I’ve heard it’s nice to be _inquisitive_ at any age.”

 

##

 

In _Erebus’s_ sick bay, later that night, Harry D.S. Goodsir was picking up errant clippings of thread from the cabin floor. He had just finished stitching up an old incision of Hoar’s from his time as a Napoleonic midshipman. Sir John’s steward was a model patient, and although he hadn’t complained a whit, Goodsir could tell the man was not much longer for the world. He was already septic and was losing more of his faculties by the hour.

Distracted with such morbid thoughts, and exhausted from his overwhelming duties, he did not notice anyone calling out his name until John Bridgens stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

And then he jumped like the bloody dickens, whirling around to see who was there.

“Sorry,” said John, with an apologetic look. “Just wanted to see if you were needing anything else for tonight? Nearly time for me to go and see about the Captain.”

“Not at the moment,” Goodsir sighed darkly, but then felt guilty over his distemper, and decided to mention some part of the truth. “A batch of antiscorbutic, perhaps.”

“Aye, well.” John’s smile gained a tinge of sadness. “We still want for many things. But strictly speaking, my inquiry was of a more personal nature. Coffee, or tea, or perhaps a glass of water.”

“Oh. Erm.” Goodsir realized, with a faint mix of apprehension and disgust, that he had quite forgotten to eat. Yet he did not feel any true hunger pangs, only the smallest sense of discomfort in that he _should_ have eaten something. “No. But I thank you.”

“No trouble at all. Shall I put up the basins before I go?” asked Bridgens, gesturing to a small stack of three that had recently been washed.

“Mm.”

Goodsir did not pay close attention to the steward. He brought out his journal, half-intending to write a bit and perhaps retire to bed, when a pointed throat-clearing broke the silence.

“Have you always had the collection of books in here, Doctor?”

“What?” Goodsir glanced up, pushed his glasses further up his nose to peer at the makeshift shelf Bridgens now indicated, which was a thick piece of mahogany nailed between two supply cabinets. About twenty books sat dusty on its surface. “Oh, that. No. They, ah,” he lifted one shoulder in a shrug, feeling helpless in his explanation, “the other surgeons brought them.”

“Ah. I see.”

Bridgens let his hands run over the various spines for a moment, clearly longing to pluck one or more of the titles from the shelf.

Goodsir waved a hand through the air in a rather sorry attempt to tell him to get on with it. “If you should like one for your own collection, take it.”

“No. I couldn’t do.”

“Well, they are not of much use here. And unless someone else sees to them, we’ll most likely have to leave them behind anyway.”

“I truly do not know if it is wise.” John already had a book half-pulled from the makeshift shelf, visibly wistful at not being able to read it. “Although, if you are certain….”

“John,” sighed Goodsir again, “rest assured I shall not miss them. Have as many as you damn well please.”

 

##

 

In _Terror’s_ great cabin, a comfortable silence reigned, save for the whispery scratching of James’s pen against paper. This rhythm was broken only by the sound of Francis turning pages in his book, as well as the the occasional _snick_ of James’s fountain pen being dipped into the inkwell every few minutes, then tapped against the rim of the glass.

James was writing the latest Divine Service, due to be delivered this coming Sunday. Assigning it to him spur of the moment had been an emergency measure, really, despite the plain fact that Francis always hated giving the damned thing and could find no joy in it now after all they had lost. Only James was so listless, particularly after the melancholic episode following Carnivale. He dropped weight at an alarming clip, and he had grown a rather surprising beard flecked with red and grey. And he simply floated through the usual duties. There were no stories, or genuine smiles, or any attentiveness to detail. It was as if he were asleep on his feet, yet far worse. Even sleepwalkers could react to their surroundings after being shaken awake.

Having him in such despondent spirits before the long walk simply would not do.

So Francis had given over the writing of services to the _Erebus_ Captain for the foreseeable future. Although it was not a perfect solution, it had been a good one; James’s countenance had recently transformed from listless and melancholy to the sort of feverish, manic agitation Francis at least recognized. It was not necessarily cheerful, but the task clearly gave him new purpose, which was all Francis had desired to see.

As James wrote, Francis contented himself with a book for awhile, and relished the companionable silence. Perhaps the only benefit of packing up the ships was that every man now returned to their berths exhausted, and had no time for further mischief. No person stirred out of bounds save for those on watch or otherwise occupied with their duties.

Eventually, Francis became bored with the novel, and began observing the _Erebus_ Captain as he wrote. The man truly had a gift for these matters. Seeing him work up close was gratifying in ways Francis could not quite explain. James’s first paragraph – interrupted constantly with heavy sighs and cutting complaints – had swiftly turned into two, and then four, and then multiple pages, scrawled in concentrated silence. Every now and again, James switched back and forth between his leather-bound journal and the loose papers; Francis had no idea what the two contained or how this might help the effort, but it was indisputably clear that James had done this sort of thing before. The overall method seemed mad from the outside, but the furrow of his brow and the small smile that tugged at his mouth made clear how much he enjoyed this task.

Indeed, James now bent so closely to his papers that his hair hung loose over his face, mere centimeters away from the nib of his pen. He was so engrossed in his writing that he could hardly spare a glance for anything else – including, Francis was stunned and then mesmerized to note – his writing tools.

A large lock of James’s dark hair, shaggy and untamed, had somehow fallen into the inkwell at his right hand, like a paintbrush plunged into fresh color.

James had not yet noticed; he was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth and murmuring to himself as he examined the contents of his most recent sentence. Reading over the words again, most likely, until he was sure they were perfect. Or until he knew them by heart.

Francis could not tear his eyes away from such a patent, visceral absurdity. There were only two further options at this point: either James would notice this unfortunate occurrence before upsetting the inkwell, or he would not.

If he somehow caught this accident before glancing up – there could be no more than a small flick of the eyes upward before drawing himself to his full height – he would perhaps have seconds to grip the errant scoundrel before it slid back across his papers and marred his last hour of painstaking work.

If James did not glimpse the damned thing in time, Francis imagined the quick mess such an oversight would create. Fine tendrils of hair would drag through the freshly-penned words like charcoal spreading across a clean hearth, then the lock would sail backwards like a pendulum as the _Erebus_ Captain sat up, speckling James’ hands and shirt, spotting black all over the table till the strands unwound and rippled patterns across the granite of his shoulders and tense jaw.

He could look up at any moment. He could move at any moment.

And suddenly Francis was on his feet, padding towards James as softly as that damned ship’s cat might have done, all those years ago. Before James could do much more than exhale over his previous sentence, Francis stepped forward and gently parted the curtain of Fitzjames’s hair with one hand, attempting to prevent the worst.

James startled visibly, then, and sat back in his chair as fast as if he’d been shoved into it; Francis moved with him, cupping the single dark lock in the flesh of his palm with a hushed _shhh_ as inky wet strands of hair swept down his life line, feather-like, tickling. Like the whisper of a signature or a brush along canvas.

Jesus God, even hanging tangled and messy around Francis’s fingers, weeks past a wash, James’s hair was so damned soft.

“The ink,” Francis finally said, voice cracking on the words. He was standing so close to James’s chair that their knees now touched, briefly. “You’ll muss your jacket.”

The tension did not leave James’s gangly frame. “You mean shirt.”

Right. He was only in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

The _Erebus_ Captain’s eyes, dark and searching, were now locked to Francis’s with an unparalleled intensity. Even at their most vitriolic, they had never glanced at each other like this, with such singular focus. Although the door was open – baring the strange tableaux to anyone who might stumble in – Francis could not tear his eyes away. The beacon of James’s strangely-serious gaze pinned him in place as if he were alone on a great stage, daring him to speak, or to move, coupled with the tiny, infinitesimal slide of a thick droplet of ink, as it slowly dribbled down his outstretched, cupped palm and past his wrist.

Reaching up, not yet breaking eye contact, James encircled Francis’s shirt-sleeved forearm with one hand. As slightly-callused fingers searched below the open, loose cuff, he immediately began to trace a path upward: first finding bare skin and thumbing the quickest rivulet of ink away, smearing a patch of green-black just next to the wrist bone, then pulling Francis’s arm farther down – enough to put him off balance, force him to bend a little further – just enough.

Here, James leaned forward, pressed his mouth to the thrumming pulse in Francis’s wrist, now beating quick as a hummingbird’s wing, and grazed his lips on a slow path toward the blot of ink in the center of Francis’s hand. He did not stop there; slowly and painstakingly searched out every place on Francis’s skin that ran slick with it – the thick web connecting palm and thumb, the creases of his index finger, the pliable flesh at the base of loosely-curled digits.

That same strumming pulse echoed throughout Francis’s body, then, each beat flushing hot up his chest to his temples and all the way down to his now-hard prick as James, his eyes heavy and half-lidded with lust, cradled Francis’s arm in two hands.

Quietly, as he dragged his lips across Francis’s skin, back to their starting place, he opened his mouth and let the pink tip of his tongue trail across the blue-purple veins in Francis’s pale wrist, up toward the heel of Francis’s palm, where a ghostly dark outline still shadowed soft flesh.

_“Oh.”_

The noise, barely audible, no more than a shocked breath, slipped out before Francis could help it. His prick twitched noticeably, a shiver ran through his frame, and he had to put his other hand on the tabletop to keep his knees steady.

James pulled back, then, the movement so delayed he appeared half-drugged.

When Francis met his eyes again, there was a touch of ink still blooming dark at the corner of James’s lips; Francis could not stop staring at it. He wanted to reach out and brush it away with the pad of his thumb, see if the trace should mark his skin, too. He wondered what it tasted like. What James tasted like. Would he be as sweet as Sophia? Would he taste of salt and musk, briny like the smell of the sea?

James’s mouth hung slightly open. His face sought Francis’s as a sunflower might have sought the noonday summer sky, yet his blown-wide gaze was not relaxed; he still seemed as awe-struck and altered as if he had seen Tuunbaq itself.

When he spoke, his voice was unsteady.

“Francis.”

“I – ” shocked, Francis realized he was still touching James’s hair with two fingers; he could not force his arm back through any amount of willpower. “You – ”

A noise in the corridor, possibly no more than the creak of wood against ice, interrupted this awful attempt at speech; it was here that James finally sprang to his feet, walked to the basin, and wrung the last remnants of ink from his hair with one hand before washing that single lock clean.

Francis could not move; he could not breathe; he felt the old precipice shift between them and threaten to crumble away beneath their feet.

“Don’t think I can stay,” James finally murmured, putting the wash rag back onto the shelf in a messy pile, and tucking now-damp hair behind one ear. “Since – ”

Francis swallowed hard, nodded his head yes. Of course he understood. Of course a Captain’s long absence would draw unwelcome attention.

“Suppose you’ll be missed,” he said now, low and gruff.

Seconds passed; it was then Francis realized precisely what he had uttered. Or rather, how his attempt at an easy dismissal might have been interpreted in the air.

James was staring at him again, stunned into silence.

“Er,” said Francis, grasping for words, “meaning, if you are needed elsewhere, by all means go. Not that I – I mean, I would, ah – I ought to retire for the night, anyway.”

“Right.” A small throat-clearing. Even in the low light, James’s cheeks blazed red as he shrugged back into his jacket. “Capital idea. Sleep shall do us both a world of good. You can – if you wouldn’t mind reading the final text over, before bed.” He gestured to the small stack of paper, the last page of which was still drying. “I should be most appreciative to hear your thoughts on it before the morrow.”

“Yes. Course. It – Christ, where the hell’s Jopson gone, has he – ?”

“Oh, no. No need to call him, Francis.” A pause; James closed his journal and tucked it under one arm as he rounded the captain’s table and made for the door. Only one chair and a few feet of space was left between them now. “I’ll see myself out.”

_Stop that,_ Francis wanted to hiss. _Stay, damn you._

But he did not know what should happen next were James to remain here with him alone, and his knees trembled anew every time he recalled the heated drag of James’s tongue against his skin, and so Francis kept silent as the _Erebus_ Captain took his leave, still gripping the lip of the table with one hand and forcing himself to keep breathing.

 

##

 

As Edward shut the door to the officer’s cabin behind him, heaving out a breath of relief at being alone – not _Lieutenant Little,_ not a _senior officer_ , just himself, the same old sod who used to make mud pies in the rain with his older brother, in the coal-flecked hills just outside Bent – he heard a distinctive sniff echo from behind a nearby curtain.

Concerned, he stepped forward, rapped on the wood before peeking around the closed curtain and into the berth.

“Thomas? You all right?”

Inside, Jopson sat upright in his berth with a half-frozen quilt wrapped around his shoulders and lean frame, leaning against the long wall. His eyes were red, his cheeks were damp, and if he weren’t careful, those tears would freeze right to his face before the hour was through.

“Come here,” sighed Edward, and stepped inside, shedding his coat and hanging it alongside Jopson’s on the extra hook. He could never abide seeing cheerful, good-natured Thomas look so sad. “Tell me what’s the matter.”

“Nothing,” whispered Jopson. “It’s silly.”

Edward sat down on the bunk, and removed his boots. Quickly, he crawled up next to Thomas, drew his legs up, and wrapped one arm around his friend so they could both benefit from the warmth of the blankets. “It isn’t.” His fingers tightened around Thomas’s left shoulder. “You’re crying.”

Jopson let out a little shuddering breath as he spread the tail of the blanket out across Edward’s feet and knees. “I saw the Captain, just now.”

That did not usually make him melancholy at all – quite the opposite, in fact. Particularly since Crozier had stopped drinking.

“He and Commander Fitzjames were in the great cabin together, working on the Divine Service. And I went to ask them if they needed anything before I went to bed.” Jopson’s eyes filled again; his normally buoyant smile upturned into a deep frown. “And they – they – ”

“What?”

Personally, he did not much care for James Fitzjames, but the Commander had proven himself not completely useless, when Captain Crozier had been indisposed. He had been amiable and helpful to Edward as best he could throughout, and had done remarkably little peacocking in the process, even if they had suffered from a lack of sensible guidance thanks to the Captain’s absence.

Jopson finally met his gaze. “He kissed his hand.”

Edward frowned at this. “Who did?”

“Fitzjames. To – to the Captain.”

_Whatever for?_

“Well, perhaps he – the man is rather flashy. Was it some sort of private jest?”

Edward could picture such a jape unfolding fairly easily: Commander Fitzjames, perhaps taunting Captain Crozier with a well-worn tale of bravery as they reviewed the Service, receiving grumbled words and curses in return, and then disdaining such cantankerous replies with an exaggerated gesture of thanks for assistance, such as a kiss on the hand. As a fool might amuse a king. Or as a sworn knight might show allegiance to his leader.

“You did not see their faces,” said Thomas now, swiping at his cheeks with one shirt cuff. “The way he looked… like the night of the injection. But worse.”

Edward remembered that night for two reasons: first, because he had seen raw fear blazing in Fitzjames’s face as the man left for _Erebus,_ which was nothing short of astonishing; and second, because an exhausted, overworked Thomas had wept keenly in Edward’s arms in the officer’s cabin, mere minutes later, as Edward had attempted to lift part of the steward’s burdens from his shoulders.

Thomas had refused to yield even one task to Genge or Gibson, and had been visibly agitated by the situation until he was able to communicate how important his duties were to his heart and mind. How much their survival still depended on the tiniest comforts which could only be provided by a captain’s steward _._

Edward had gained a new and deeper respect for Thomas, that night, and had sworn to keep a closer watch on his friend as a result of their honest conversation.

But tonight’s melancholy had come on sudden and strange.

“Were they arguing?” Edward asked, still puzzled. Perhaps this gesture had something to do with Captain Crozier’s illness. Captain Fitzjames had taken it rather hard, all things considered. “Surely there was some reason for it.”

No man would walk around kissing another man’s hands on a whim, after all.

“I don’t know.” Jopson made a face. “One moment, they were staring at each other, why, I couldn’t see, and the next, Fitzjames just reached out and – and – ”

Taking Edward’s left hand in both hands, he mimed bringing it to his mouth; although he did no more than this, Edward still felt a spark of shock in his belly as Jopson feigned pressing a kiss to the middle of his open palm, practically pressing his cheek into the soft flesh after he did so. It was not mere courtesy, it did not engender comradely affection; it was almost – courtly. The way you might greet your sweetheart at a dance on a summer evening, once her chaperones were out of sight.

“Oh,” Edward was dumbstruck. “I see.”

Thomas released his hand, made a soft, wounded noise.

“Is that all that troubles you?” Edward placed his free hand now on Thomas’s knee. His fingers still tingled from the sensation of Thomas’s lips pressed to his skin. “Obviously, you care about the Captain, but…”

Edward was uncertain if he was ready to ask the far bolder question on his mind. Or hear the answer.

Luckily, Thomas seemed to understand what was meant, even if Edward had not said it aloud. “Maybe he doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Hold on, hold on.”

Unfortunately, Edward could not keep himself from exclaiming aloud in disbelief at such an outlandish falsehood.

Thomas cut him an outraged glare.

“Well, it’s impossible, isn’t it?” Edward jostled the younger man with the arm still around his shoulders, though he tried to temper his own reaction into something more disciplined. “Captain not needing you. Good lord, Thomas, you’re better at your duties than the rest of _Terror_ combined!”

“That’s not true,” Thomas murmured with a sigh, although a ghost of his usual smile now returned to his face.

“It bloody well is. Fat chance Crozier just – stops wanting someone he trusts implicitly to look after him. Everything – all you do – gives him such peace of mind, you know. I cannot _imagine_ how we’d have fared otherwise. Him flinging you away’d be worse than – than – refusing water in the bloody Sahara!”

The steward was flushing with pride, now. Edward could see his apple-cheeked face darkening even in the dim light filtering through the curtain from the outer room.

“I don’t know if that’s...”

“Well, I do. Captain’ll always need you at his side, Tom. No matter what. And I’ll not put up with further slander against a good officer.” Edward poked one finger into Thomas’s chest with his free hand, just above the man’s ribs. “Not on my watch.”

Thomas ducked his head on a true smile, this time. Edward felt so heartened to see the cheer on his friend’s face that he reached out and pushed that familiar lock of hair behind one ear.

Jopson did not object to this. “You’ve always been so kind to me.”

“Because you deserve nothing less.” His hand was still on Thomas’s ear. He leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his friend’s cheek. The way he might have done to cheer his smallest brother, when they were naught but boys in short pants. “Truly.”

But Jopson turned toward him at the last second, and Edward’s mouth grazed the corner of his lips, instead, and suddenly a scorching heat rushed into his face and belly.

Why had that happened? What would Jopson think of him?

“Edward?” ventured Thomas, quiet.

Edward forced himself to breathe through the butterflies now gathering in his throat and stomach. “Forgive me. I – I did not mean to – ”

Without a word, Jopson leaned forward, and pressed his lips back to Edward’s.

 


	5. Chapter 5

They had a few more officer’s dinners in the month leading up to the long walk.

James could not remember when, precisely, this tradition had begun again; one night, Francis had simply walked into the great cabin of _Erebus,_ with Henry, Little, Irving, and Goodsir in tow, and had announced they should all eat together, as if it had been merely a fortnight since their last gathering, and not months on end.

Tonight, the mood bordered on sombre. As they arrived, Little handed over a bottle of brandy from his personal locker and clapped him on the arm, Irving accidentally broke a cut crystal glass within seconds of sitting down at the table, and they made light conversation and pushed grey, meagre portions around their blue-willow plates for nearly half an hour.

It was not until Bridgens brought round some coffee that the mood finally lightened.

“Oh, come now, Fitzjames.” It was Henry, giving James a pleading look, the likes of which James had not seen since their time on the Clio. “You must tell us a story. It would not be a gathering without at least one.”

 _Don’t make me,_ James wanted to protest, but he managed to hold his tongue.

“Come now, Henry. Every man here has heard his fill of me. I daresay any one of you should be able to repeat my most popular tales by heart.”

Next to him, Francis sat up in his chair, and put down his coffee cup; a thoughtful look spread across his face. “Wager I could do.”

A small, awkward patter of laughter. Henry looked stunned, as did the rest of the group; James simply stared at Francis.

“You would wager it?”

“Freely,” said Francis. Though his mouth hardly twitched, the careless quirk of his brow betrayed his humour. “Give me a name.”

What the devil was he playing at?

“Shangkiang,” said James after a long moment.

Francis simply shrugged. “Fine.”

The men exchanged shocked glances as Francis sat up, stretched, and assumed a very amused countenance, narrowing his eyes as if they were all about to participate in some shared jest. James could feel nothing save the knot of dread in his stomach.

“Well, then,” said Francis, with a brief look askance at James, “gentlemen, allow me to thrill you with a story of equal parts lunacy and daring, as you have never heard tell in all your lives.”

Everyone chuckled, more warmly this time. Even James laughed.

“If I recall correctly, it was evening when Woosung was finally in British hands. And, as we well remember, the forces were asked to go up the left bank, all the way upriver to the walled city. Once safe channels were marked out, the storming party from the _Cornwallis_ was landed, with our dear Fitzjames” – Francis gestured toward James with one flat-palmed hand – “in the lead, despite a rain of fire from the fortifications on the hill.” He chuckled, once. “Quite a large hill, apparently.”

God above, but the man had the measure of this day dead-on. How was this possible?

“Come now, sir, you are leaving out all the best details,” was Fitzjames’s first reply, petulant and dramatic, as if Francis’s retelling was positively abhorrent in its judicious brevity. “That _quite large_ hill you disdain was near a hundred and fifty meters if it were a millimeter.”

“Naturally,” said Francis as drily and casually as if he were placating the wild imagination of a child. “And I am certain you leapt up such a massive mountain in your dress uniform, in positively sweltering heat, without even gasping for breath.”

Such false, pompous reserve caused the men to laugh again.

“Obviously,” interjected James, able to laugh even at this pointed jab. “And may I add, it is truly amazing which climate extremities one can miss in hindsight.”

Francis gave him an amused look. The tale continued.

“Some time later, with the majority of the fleet reconvened and anchored off the the city, our forces made for the crucial point of the Grand Canal. Always trying to clear those blasted trade routes, hm?”

 _“Trade routes,”_ echoed James, in a faux-offended manner. “By God, man, the artillery fire went on for three days!”

Francis just smirked, and pretended not to know where he had gone wrong, pursing his mouth in thought. “Was something more noble occurring at that particular moment?”

Every time he met James’s eyes, James felt a flush of pleasure creep hot up his chest and into his face. It was as if no one else were in the room at all.

“You already know it was.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” drawled Francis, as if he’d quite forgot the tale. “You’d lost your scabbard.”

The laughter from the assembled men verged on near-hysterical, this time, and lasted near half a minute before Francis was able to bring them under better control.

“As well as some pesky details about scaling the walls and dropping down the ladders and being shot in the arm by a group of Tartars.”

“Arm, ribs, and backbone,” corrected James with a roll of his eyes.

“My sincerest apologies to the rifleman for such errors. Let me see. Thus, the hero of the hour was evacuated back to the _Cornwallis,_ forcing one Doctor Stanley out of his bed and into the surgery – ” the smiles turned slightly awkward; Francis pressed on “ – at which point he subsequently carved you up like a Christmas ham, put you in bed, and plied you with enough rum to sink a Bengal tiger upon recovery. And then I suppose it was nearly time to pose for that bloody commemorative painting, hm?”

“Sir, I shall have you know it was enough rum to sink an _elephant_ ,” corrected James in a long-suffering tone, as if this were the most injurious falsehood of all. “Hence why I am captured so cheerful in said commemorative piece.”

He glanced at Henry, who made a begrudging face, but still smiled. Least the compromise had soothed one person’s nerves, at any rate.

“Then I most humbly beg your pardon, Commander.” Francis gave a little flourish, as if sweeping an elegant bow. “Our tale of heroism is hereby concluded.”

Edward and the other Terrors led the room in a round of wild applause and whistles. But even through the merriment, specifically engineered to cheer everyone’s spirits for the long walk, James had no eyes for anyone else save Francis, who was not laughing, but glancing at James as if he knew not what to say next.

 

##

 

After dinner, once the other Terrors had departed and the Erebites had returned to their own cabin, James went back to his berth, intending to write. Upon arriving, however, he recalled he had left his favorite fountain pen in the Great Cabin.

Sighing, he set off to retrieve the damned instrument. It was here by the captain’s table where he found Francis. The Irishman was not yet wearing his slops or coat, and was dropping a gilded blue book off at the head of the table. Looked nearly-new.

Where on earth had it come from?

“Francis?”

The _Terror_ Captain startled, and glanced up. “Oh! Sorry. Thought you’d turned in.”

“Not for hours yet.” James did not understand what was happening. Francis was acting as if he’d been caught in some dastardly crime, although he was doing nothing save preparing to scrawl a message on a piece of paper. “You – are you not returning to _Terror_ directly, then?”

“Well, I – that was my – plan.”

 _What have you brought me?_ James wanted to inquire. _Why is your manner so altered? Will you not stay to explain yourself?_

Francis had already turned back to his paper. Likely writing out some hideous, very noncommittal message.

Suddenly, James was so incensed he lost all manner of rational thought, and snapped out the first rejoinder which came unbidden to his lips.

“Is that all, then? After everything that’s happened, you would leave me wanting?”

Francis whirled around as quickly as if he’d been struck across the face. Color rose in his cheeks as he met James’s challenging gaze. “Wanting.”

“That is what was said, yes.”

Francis’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur. “And what it is you so desperately want from me, James?”

James drew himself to his full height. He refused to back down now.

“You,” he said simply.

“God-damn it, will you not – ” whatever little speech Francis had conjured up for this occasion, it was clearly not met by the expected response, and so the _Terror_ Captain’s mouth now hung open like a concussed carp. “What?”

“Thought of nothing else for weeks.” James spread his hands in a shrug, affecting a glib casualness he did not feel in the slightest. “Since before Christmas.”

Francis continued to gape at him. Although one eyebrow slowly rose as he observed James, still skeptical, it was as if he had been struck mute.

“And the – after the other night _,_ I – god damn it. I ached for you, Francis.”

“Ached,” repeated Francis in a dazed manner. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “James.”

“For hours.” James swallowed, once, and watched as Francis’s eyes tracked the movement of his throat. “Stroked myself off for the first time in – ”

Without another word, Francis crossed the room in five strides, pulled James into his arms, and crushed his mouth over James’s. Although their hurried embrace was damned awkward at first – complete with clashing teeth, bumped noses, and a not inestimable amount of gracelessness – soon, James was able to drag his hands across Francis’s jaw and up to his temples the way he’d craved, feeling the _Terror_ Captain’s rough stubble graze his own shadowed jaw. He pressed forward, sliding his tongue into Francis’s mouth; Francis shuddered against him, grabbed his shirtsleeves in two fists, and opened his mouth further, reciprocating this sweet heat.

 _“Fucking hell,_ ” Francis gasped after several minutes, as James bent to his neck and below his open shirt collar, sucking tiny red marks into pale, freckled skin. “Damn your mouth, James.”

James was dizzy. One hand slid up Francis’s well-defined chest while the other played across the button-fly of his trousers. He paused just long enough to lave a long streak up Francis’s neck, ending this caress with a soft nip just below his jaw.

“‘Tis fully damned,” he whispered.

It made Francis moan aloud. Every whimper and sigh coaxed out of the Irishman only spurred James on.

“Damn these buttons.” He licked at Francis’s shoulder, now, as he shoved the shirt collar to one side. “Damn your clothes.” He nibbled this same place; the Irishman shivered and bucked up. “Every last scrap.”

He bit down into soft flesh, hard enough to bruise.

At this, the _Terror_ Captain grunted so loudly it was a wonder the entire orlop deck had not heard. James quickly pressed his mouth to Francis’s, quieting them both momentarily.

“Bed,” Francis growled, once they came up for air again.

In seconds, he had James stumbling backwards into the far wall.

Christ above, James wanted nothing more than to be pinned to his mattress beneath such a man, fucked until they were spent, only they would have to leave the great cabin to get to James’s room.

Unless they used the captain’s berth.

“James.”

Francis’s voice cracked over his name; a question.

“I don’t care,” James breathed, as Francis’s fingers found the hard ridge of his cock, and gently touched the head. James’ legs wobbled; he sagged against the doorframe. Francis made a needful noise, low in his throat, rubbed that same hand up the length of James’s cock as he used his own body to keep James standing upright. For a moment, they each ground desperately against the other’s hips, gasping at the thrilling sensations this produced. “Christ, Francis, I don’t give a damn, just – ”

Together, they fumbled for the latch and stumbled into Sir John’s room, tugging up shirttails and yanking off waistcoats and kissing fiercely all the while, until Francis grabbed James’s waist in two hands, and practically heaved him up onto the bunk, ass-first.

“Going to have me?” James meant it as a jest, although he was not truly laughing as he tossed aside his shirt, and Francis did the same. Although much thinner than when they had set off, the Irishman was still as barrel-chested as many sailors yet in their prime. Heat rippled down James’ middle and settled in his cock as he settled his weight back onto his elbows, then second-guessed such casualness, and ripped his trousers off as quickly as possible. “Irish devil.”

Poised halfway up the ladder, Francis beheld James’s bare chest and legs in the dim light, staring for all the world as if he were hypnotized. With a sudden, exaggerated growl, he crawled up toward the pillow. One hand caressed James’s neck and shoulder, while the other planed down across his abdomen.

“I’ll show you devil.”

With a wicked gap-toothed grin, he bent his head to James’s chest, grazed over one brown nipple with his teeth, and immediately sucked the soft nub into his mouth, timing it with the rough friction of one hand over James’s linens.

James yelped and arched into the touch, fingers tightening in Francis’s hair as Francis toyed at him using tongue and teeth and blissful suction.

“Good Christ, yes. Oh, yes.”

After an agonizing few minutes of working at him, Francis pulled away, breathing heavily. His mouth glistened wet in the darkness. James could not help thinking how much he wanted to see that mouth on his cock.

“Could suck you off right here,” Francis told him, casting a mischievous glance downward after catching the gleam in James’s eyes. “Is that what you’ve wanted?”

“Ah,” groaned James. “Francis.”

Francis began to kiss his way down James’ bare chest, prompting a visceral shudder. Oh, god. If Francis put that beautiful mouth on his cock, he wouldn’t last. He was so close; already too close.

“Take me,” he begged instead. “Please.”

A small pause. After a moment, Francis reached up over James’s thigh and laced their fingers together; surprised and then pleased, James gripped his hand tighter than a lifeline.

“You’re certain?”

Francis’s face was so impossibly open as he regarded James now; although want still curled deep in James’s belly like a stoked flame, the sight of his lover observing him with such tenderness almost brought tears to James’s eyes.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Crawling up the bed, Francis cupped James’s face in both hands, and kissed him so deeply it soon had them both breathless. “I’ll have you, then, if you’ll – I don’t know how.” Another searing kiss; he rumbled out a sort of laugh. “Tease that maypole cock after, I suppose.”

“Jesus Christ,” swore James, smiling against Francis’s mouth as the _Terror_ Captain draped his body over James’s, and pulled him up into a fierce embrace.

 

##

 

Harry D.S. Goodsir woke in his cabin on _Erebus_ to something he assumed, at first, was the usual shrieking of the ship against the ice. It was never truly quiet in his bunk, per se, but since the loss of the other surgeons, paired with the lack of able bodied men on _Terror,_ he had got used to a certain reduction of noise in the night.

Yet the sound he heard now was more rhythmic. He’d have suspected rats, given all the rustling and squeaking, but it seemed as if this noise was coming from the shared wall with the captain’s berth, instead of from below decks. How odd. Sir John’s quarters had been empty these two years hence.

At that moment, his ears picked up additional noises: a soft groan, followed by another, and another; two harsh, guttural breaths echoing in the dark.

_“There. Oh, god!”_

Hang on. He knew that voice.

 _“Yes, James,_ ” came another, gravelly voice, absent half its usual authority but as thickly accented as it was when dispatching commands. _“Y – ah! Fucking hell.”_

“Oh, no,” said Goodsir aloud as he bolted upright, and immediately clapped one hand across his mouth.

It was the Captains.

The Captains were in Sir John’s berth, doing –

With a squeak of fear, Goodsir scrambled out of bed, tripping down the last rung of the ladder in his hurry, snatching only a mass of blankets in his panic. For the love of God, where were his boots?

As he scrambled to find warm clothing, he tried not to listen to the continued sounds echoing through the wall – he was not a pervert, thank you very much! – but the obscene groans and gasps were near-impossible to ignore.

Captain Fitzjames, audibly whimpering, slurring his words. _“Francis. Francis. Please don’t stop.”_

Captain Crozier, forceful and raspy. _“Fucking lovely, James. Oh, look at you.”_

Rushing out into the greater sick bay before he could overhear any more, and yanking the door to his berth closed behind him, Goodsir was then greeted by the frankly delightful sounds of snoring, farting, and murmuring from his current patients, and exhaled a deep breath of relief when he was able to confirm what he had guessed.

He could hear nothing from the great cabin out here.

Releasing another breath, he had no sooner decided to borrow Doctor Stanley’s berth for the rest of the night when a flash of movement, coupled with a brown-grey blur of fur, drew his eye to the door.

Lady Silence stood here, with an oil lamp of her own, clearly having just walked in.

“Hello,” said Harry first, and then promptly wanted to kick himself. She couldn’t answer back. “Sorry. Er. Qanuippit?”

_Damn it._

She still waved at him. Elegant arched brows drew down into a minute V before she placed her lamp on a nearby counter, and quickly signed something.

 _Harry – why –_ something _– you sleeping?_

“Why aren’t I – oh. Er. _Tusaqtuq…_ well, noise. And, uh, _tupattuq._ ”

_You heard a noise?_

“ _Ii_ ,” sighed Harry, and scratched at his beard, not quite sure how to say this to a lady. He also did not want to be overheard by anyone else. “Aglooka and, er, _iglua_. _Takiniqsaq._ ”

 _What did you hear?_ signed Silence.

Harry flushed red, shook his head no, and gestured wordlessly toward his bunk with one hand. Rather get mauled to death by Tuunbaq than go back in there.

Softly, Silence went to the door, pulled it open, and slipped inside, as cautiously as if she were expecting a wild animal to leap out. Although Harry – miraculously – heard nothing untoward this time, Silence clearly was able to understand what had rousted him out in the first place. After several long seconds, she emerged, and gave him a curious look. She did not seem abashed or horrified by what she had overheard.

 _Taimaa?_ she signed.

“Is that – all?” Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, you must be bloody _joking_.”

Before he could bluster through some awfully old-fashioned speech, perhaps worthy of Sir John Franklin himself, Silence’s blank expression melted away. Her face split into a wide, mischievous smile as she signed her next sentence.

_Aglooka innatiqtuq Kamikutaak?_

And she started to laugh, low in her throat.

“God save us.” He laughed, too, flushing all the way down to his socks. She was so beautiful this way. “Well, now you’re burdened with it, too, eh?”

With a small grin, she tilted her head toward Doctor Stanley’s cabin.

Harry nodded, understanding. Might as well stop milling about out here.

He was so out of sorts, however, that he did not think much about her simple directive until she closed the berth door behind them and set her oil lamp on the empty desk. Briskly, she stripped the bed and tossed the frozen linens into the floor, till the bare wood was visible. This done, she lined the bunk with several lengthy skins and a bedroll taken from her pack, put the pack at the head of the bunk, and strung up one of the others overhead.

At this point, he realized two things: one, that she intended to sleep here – alone, obviously – and two, that he was still standing in this berth with her, completely disheveled, wearing only his nightshirt and socks.

And then, holding his eye all the while, she pulled off her parka and fur trousers, tossing these onto the berth before revealing a pair of short bloomers beneath.

“You don’t have to…”

Harry tried to say something, to avert his heated gaze, but he was captivated, and his body reacted visibly to such temptations.

 _Harry,_ she said. Although she did not speak aloud, he could hear her in his mind as clear as day. _Qanuq isumavit?_

Incredibly, he understood her perfectly.

“Sorry. I – am I – hallucinating?” he asked.

_Suqqattaqqit?_

“Not this.” He barked out a short, self-conscious laugh. “I – Christ. No one’s ever looked at me. All I know is from – from reading. I – please, I do not even know your name.”

She blinked, seemed to accept this, and then addressed him again. _Silnaujunga._

“Sil – Silna.” He tested the name on his tongue, watched her smile grow larger. “Silna. It’s – beautiful. Truly.”

Perhaps he was not only speaking of her name, now.

_Qaiquqtaujumavit, Harry?_

She glanced down at where his nightshirt stuck out from his body, and met his eyes again with another, more meaningful, glance. He swallowed.

_Ii._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Qanuippit? = How are you?  
> Tusaqtuq...tupattuq. = He hears....he wakes up. (Poor Harry doesn't have verb endings yet, LOL.)  
> Iglua. Takiniqsaq. = The other one. Taller.  
> Aglooka innatiqtuq Kamikutaak? = Aglooka goes to bed with Long Boots?  
> Qanuq isumavit? = What do you think?  
> Suqqattaqqit? = What do you usually do?  
> Qaiquqtaujumavit, Harry? = Do you want to be invited?


	6. Chapter 6

_epilogue_

 

Damned stump woke Blanky far too early, even for an ice master’s taste. At first, he assumed the queer pulsing ache in his hamstring – or what was left of the damn thing, anyway – was what had got him up. So he had a piss and drank a bit of ice melt and tried to massage the lingering pins and needles feeling away with one hand.

Which is why he was the only man who heard old Stanley’s berth creak open, and saw the little Inuit girl slip out, cool as you please. Although she were already wearing her thick parka and had not a hair out of place, Tom knew only one reason why she’d have hung about the ship in a berth in the dead of night. With a bedroll still on her back. And Goodsir nowhere in sight.

“Ublaatkut,” he said cheerfully, as if they’d done nothing more than pass each other on the ice. “Kaapiturumaviit?”

She turned, narrowed her eyes in silent alarm before realizing he represented fuck-all in the way of a threat.

“Hanaviit?” asked Blanky with a grin, racking his brain for the right words.

_Be quiet,_ she signed back using her strings, expression unchanging.

“Ah, ‘m just takin’ the piss out of you, _tiŋmiaq_.”

The Lady tilted her head, clearly trying to decipher the words, if not the tone, of this reply.

Blanky just shrugged. “Like that fellow of yours. He’s a good lad.”

“Goodsir,” she corrected after a long moment, in English. Blanky was stunned to hear her say this much aloud. “Not lad.”

“Aye, that he ain’t, love, not any more. Sure you’ve seen to that much, eh?”

Granted, he hadn’t heard a damn peep from either of them in the night, apart from the door opening, but better to let her blush a bit. Think he’d found out some saucy secret. He’d been bored out of his damned mind the last few weeks, and this was fast cheerin’ his spirits.

Silence immediately switched back to Inuktitut, and although it was damned hard to decipher, her missing most’ve her tongue and all, he got the gist of things fairly well.

_“What would it take for you to be quiet about it?”_

Blanky spread his hands in an innocent way. “Never uttered a bad word against a good surgeon, love.” A pause; the Yorkshireman inclined his head toward the bunk, where a boneless Goodsir was surely still hidin’ out. “‘Specially not that one, an’ on the eve of a march.”

Didn’t even blink in response.

“And I s’pose if you tell me about something more interesting than you snoggin’ ‘im, I’ll shut my gob faster’n a fuckin’ snappin’ piranha.” He thought for a moment. “Answer me this, then, duck. Why’s your Tuunbaq not yet clawed me to smithereens?”

Quickly, he translated these last few sentences into Inuktitut, or as close as he could, anyway. Seemed only fair to give her a chance to respond in her own tongue.

Primly, she glanced right at the far wall, and waved a hand toward the great cabin, as if his last question hadn’t even been asked. _“Your friend Aglooka stayed here last night.”_

Blanky’s eyebrows jumped up. “What’s that now, love?”

_“Harry knows,”_ she said archly, and the smallest of smiles flitted across her queen-like face. _“Long Boots whimpered like a pup.”_

“Whimpered like… ” Blanky did a double-take, forgetting even to take the piss out of her for calling Goodsir _Harry_. “You mean… ”

That tiny smile had grown into a killer whale’s grin, as the lady motioned toward the right wall, then mimed pumping a fucking great cockstand in one delicate fist. _“Two hard things rubbing together.”_

“Look here,” he said, and pulled back the blanket to show her his leg, “I’m a cripple now, so you best not be joking me. _You heard all that?_ ”

Jesus God, had they fucked in Sir John’s bunk, even? Francis must’ve been begging for a frig, were that the way of it, and make no mistake. Platypus Pond all over again.

_“Aglooka could not stop talking.”_

Blanky began to laugh, a great uproarious cackle, and had to bite down on the sleeve of his coat to keep from waking the whole ruddy place. Didn’t do a bit of good; he cackled until his stomach ached and his leg throbbed like the pits of hell, causing someone a couple of beds over – one of the young lads, probably – to sling a pillow in his direction.

When Blanky calmed himself, and glanced up again, the lady was gone, as was her _qulliq,_ and a very quiet, not-very innocent-looking Goodsir was bustling into the cabin from Doctor Stanley’s old berth, holding something or other in one hand, as if he’d just gone in to find a bit of laudanum.

Though he’d have to try better than that to get others to believe him. He was still wearing yesterday’s apron with the funny mark on it.

“Good morning, Blanky,” he said pleasantly.

“Mornin’, Goodsir.” The ice master couldn’t help laughing again at the swirl of pride and puppy love that still bloomed on the young surgeon’s face. God help him, he was pleased as punch to get his cock wet at last. “So when the fuck can I get out of this bloody bed?”

 

##

 

Entwined in a single bunk, legs and arms tangled up like two playful kittens after a spirited romp, James and Francis did naught for several minutes upon waking, simply breathed in such intimate closeness without speaking.

Finally, Francis broke the silence, and although he did not move, James could still feel the slight downward twitch of Francis’s chin as he glanced over.

“Bridgens will be in soon.”

Meaning: we should get up.

James mumbled out a noise that was almost _no,_ and nosed his face into Francis’s neck in protest. He was still warm; a precious rarity considering their current conditions. He could not remember the last time he had been so content.

“Stay a moment.”

Francis did. His chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm. Again. Again. Nearest the corner where the bunk met the wall, one still-sock-clad foot rustled restlessly against the linens and half-frozen blankets. Finally, the _Terror_ Captain huffed out a gust of an exhale that threatened to dislodge James’s cheek from its comfortable perch entirely.

“Well?”

James frowned, not understanding, and glanced up to gauge Francis’s expression. “Well, what?”

Another heavy sigh. An unhappy furrow appeared between Francis’s brows. “Aren’t you going to – ?”

Briefly, Francis glanced down, eyes darting to James’s bottom lip.

Surprised and then pleased by the request, James eased himself up onto one elbow, so he could better see Francis’s face; first, he saw the Irishman’s blue eyes flare and then narrow, as if he expected James to shun him for such a pedestrian request.

Before Francis could work himself into a temper, James reached out, traced two lazy fingers across the already-tense brow and all the way down the temples, past sharp cheekbones and down his craggy, stubbled cheeks until the _Terror_ Captain relaxed infinitesimally, and his eyes fluttered closed. Only then did James lean down to press a soft, lingering kiss against Francis’s mouth.

Francis let out a soft, appreciative noise against his lips.

“There,” James finally breathed as he pulled back. “That’s better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ublaatkut = Good morning.  
> Kaapiturumaviit? = Want any coffee?  
> Hanaviit? = Busy, are you?  
> Tiŋmiaq = duck
> 
> “Two hard things rubbing together" is the literal translation in Inuktitut for gay male relationships (at least, as we know them in the modern context.) What a world! Let's just say Silna pioneered the shit out of that terminology and be done with it.
> 
> I don't know how this spiraled out into almost fifty bloody pages, but whatever. Hope you guys enjoyed it!


End file.
